The Rogue
by simison
Summary: The Alienage is home to a weary but proud people. The elves here toil day by day to keep back hunger and despair as they go on with their lives. But once a while, the daily hardships are forgotten as the community gathers around to celebrate. One young elf breaks the status quo as he faces marriage.


**The Rogue**

**Ch. 1: A Big Day**

"Wake up, Cousin. Why are you still in bed? It's your big day!" an excited voice declared as it barged its way into Darrian's slumber.

"I see some things never change," a second voice added, laced with an all-knowing humor.

With a groan, Darrian Tabris woke up, lazily flipping himself onto his back as his brown eyes reluctantly opened. The old, worn view of aged wood stared back at him from the top bunk's frame. _Why do we even have a bunk bed? _The familiar thought was answered by memory, which always took another moment to wake up after the rest of him did. _Right, for little sister before she died of a cold. _The youngest Tabris brushed off the memory like old dust and turned his head toward the room. He started when he saw two young women standing next to his bed. The thin redhead with the goofy grin was Shianni, his cousin. Her presence didn't bother him.

The other woman didn't belong. Why on Thedas a skinny, raven-haired human was in his room in the middle of Denerim's Alienage was beyond Darrian, but he'd have none of it. However, as he opened his mouth to yell at the trespasser, his memory caught up to him again with an important message: the stranger was not a human. Instead, that was his other cousin, Kallian. He covered his impending yell as a yawn. "Ugghhh...just a little longer..."

"Come on! Don't make me use cold water again," the golden-eyed Shianni threatened as she crossed her arms in front of her.

"I'll fetch the pail," Kallian offered, mischief dancing in her brown eyes as she took a playful step away from the bed.

Shianni giggled before her demeanor turned serious. "You **do **remember what today is, don't you?"

Darrian took a whiff as a particular aroma wafted into his nose. He snorted. "According to your breath, it's get-drunk-before-noon day."

"I forgot about his sharp tongue," Kallian dryly commented.

Shianni scowled down at him. "No, you idiot. You're getting married today! And Soris too! That's what I came to tell you! Your bride, Nesiara, she's here early today!"

The bored look Darrian was perfecting vanished before he sprang out of bed, still wearing his plain outfit from yesterday. "So that means we do it now? I'm not ready!"

Kallian glanced over him and shook her head. "We can see that. Please tell me he does have something nicer to wear?"

"Uncle Cyrion bought him something for the occasion," Shianni assured her other cousin. To the half-awake Tabris, she said, "Well it's going to happen anyway, so hold your breath and jump right in! There's going to be music, decorations, feasting; weddings are so much fun! You're so lucky!"

Darrian stared at Shianni with utter confusion. _Didn't she just say that the wedding is happening early, and that I'm late? ...Oh, she just meant they're here earlier than expected. _Hiding his embarrassment behind a smug smirk, he touted, "You just want to get to the drinking."

"Which won't happen until you get moving, will it?" she shot back before she playfully sighed. "Alright, we'll stop tormenting you. I should go talk to the other bridesmaids and find my dress. Oh, Soris said that he'll be waiting for you outside. So move it!"

"Make sure you get all the buttons put in the right spots," Kallian reminded him. "And mother and father send their greetings and will see you at the wedding."

Darrian blinked. "All of them are here? I thought Aunt Adi was staying at Highever to take care of the new baby."

Kallian shook her head. "The baby is healthy enough for travel, and it's not often when the entire Tabris clan gathers together, ever since Mother moved to Highever to be married. Everyone is here."

Darrian nearly asked how on Thedas they were able to afford it when he realized what the answer was: Cousland. He shut his mouth before he'd give anyone the chance to talk about how wonderful the Couslands were, a subject he'd already had to deal with numerous times. "Fine. I'll see all of you at the wedding."

Both women left, chattering about their dresses, which mercifully was silenced as the door closed behind them. Reluctantly, Darrian ambled over to his chest and pulled it open. On top of all of his possessions was a blue and burgundy doublet with gold trim around the shoulders, coupled with white breeches with black lines sliding down the legs. Darrian cringed at the outfit. _So impractical. _He'd much rather wear something more form-fitting and in darker colors to help him blend in. This frivolous outfit could only be made worse if it was in yellow and bright red. With a defeated sigh, he surrendered to fate and changed outfits as quickly as possible. _The sooner this is over, the sooner I'm out of this,_he promised himself, wishing he had a place to put his knives. Once his black boots were tied, he headed toward the exit and ran into his father, who was similarly dressed.

The grey-haired Cyrion wasn't as old as he looked, but years of hard living and the deaths of his wife and daughter settled hard on his body. He looked carefully over his son before giving him his nod of approval. "Good morning, my son. It's your big day!" he declared with a proud smile. The smile shrunk as the next words spilled out. "Oh, I wish your mother could have been here."

Darrian twitched at the remark before replying, "Can we talk about this arrangement?"

From the expectant look on Cyrion's face, the patriarch wasn't surprised by his son's resistance. "Still not pleased, I can see. Of course we can talk."

"Do I really have to get married?" Darrian blurted.

"It's time for you to have your own life. Unmarried, you're a child forever. The dowry has been paid, the Chantry has issued the permit, and everything is ready. All we need is you," Cyrion calmly explained.

"But I don't want to get married. All it does is add more hassle to my life, more complications that I can do without." To emphasize, Darrian tugged at a strand of his ruby red hair. Normally, it was dyed brown, making him more unremarkable. However, for the sake of the wedding, Cyrion demanded he let his natural hair cast off the false color.

Cyrion chuckled. "You might think that, but I promise you, it'll look far different after you're married. Just be glad I chose the match. Without parents to represent you, children like your cousin Soris end up marrying whoever the elder can find."

_No escape_, Darrian thought irritably. _I bet Mother didn't give in that easily. _"So, tell me about my bride," he glumly said.

"Nesiara? She's from a good family in Highever, their eldest daughter. She's a veritable genius at crafts, so I'm told. And yes, she's quite pretty. I knew you'd ask, so I thought I'd save you the trouble," Cyrion declared with a small grin and chuckle. "Alright, time for you to go find Soris. The sooner this wedding starts the less chance you two have to escape."

"A small chance is a still a chance," the red-headed youngster reminded him.

Cyrion shook his head as he quietly laughed. "Still have your mother's smart mouth, I see. Oh, one last thing before you go, son. Your martial training...the swordplay, knives, and whatever your mother trained you in. Best not to mention it to your betrothed."

"She'll find out sooner or later."

"Later. Definitely later," Cyrion quickly replied. His humor waned as he went on. "We don't want to seem like troublemakers, after all. Adaia made that mistake."

"The humans who killed her made a bigger one," Darrian growled.

The verbal barb, though not aimed at him, undid Cyrion's smile entirely. "Our world is so full of many injustices." The man bowed his head in pained remembrance before he shook his head. He walked over and grabbed a pair of boots sitting on the table. "I think it's time for you to have these." Cyrion returned to his son and held them out. Up close, Darrian could see they were cured brown leather boots with green vines winding around them. "Your mother was not the sort to knit little booties for babes, not when she could make something much more lasting."

Darrian gently accepted the offered gift, his fingers trailing along the vines as he smiled. Without wasting another moment, he kicked off his wedding boots and placed the new ones on. "Thank you, father."

Cyrion smiled down at him before he stepped to the side. "It's the very least I can give you, as you start your new life. Go on, then. I still have to prepare the house for the rest of the Tabris clan, and Soris is no doubt waiting for you."

Darrian glanced over the one-room abode. Besides his father's large bed, there were two sets of bunk beds pushed into the room's back corner. The kitchen occupied another corner, while the main table filled the center of the room. All along the walls, sacks of food and crates of wood and tools cluttered the room. After trying to imagine six people living in the home, even if it was only a single night, Darrian decided marriage would give him a much roomier place to sleep tonight. He nodded to his father and stepped out of his old home.

To his surprise, and faint annoyance, Soris wasn't waiting right outside the door. Darrian glanced around and frowned when he didn't see his cousin and best friend anywhere in sight. "Where is he?" he muttered to himself.

His thoughts were interrupted by loud and obnoxious singing coming directly ahead. Standing next to the wooden gate which divided the Alienage in half were three very drunk elves. One of them sang about a rich man's affair with a fisherwoman with gusto. Darrian decided it was his civic duty to put an end to the song. He sauntered up to the drunken trio. The singer, a light-skinned red-head, ended his song to acknowledge him with a slurred, "Good," the drunk hiccupped. "Good afternoon, my friend. What's the good word?"

With his objective complete, Darrian switched tactics. "Just doing the rounds, collecting wedding presents."

"Oh, oh!" The drunk mumbled as he looked at Darrian with alarm. "Um,...w-we, uh, thought that, um..."

The drunk's black-haired companion came to his rescue. "We though cash would be better. Spends easier!"

Behind them, the third elf simply collapsed onto his back with a thud. The red-head didn't notice as he spoke up, "Right, right! Yeah, we gathered up...uh...thirty bits!" he declared as he hoisted a small coin bag into the air. "That's a pretty good... wedding present for anyone."

"Much better than a present, yes?" The dark-haired drunk added.

Normally, Darrian would've halted there, he'd prefer to swindle humans when he could, but he was willing to make an exception this time. "Well," he began hesitantly. "Forty bits is more traditional..."

The second drunk quickly nodded his head. "Oh, you're right. Don't mind us. We're a bit tipsy." He dug into his belt and pulled out another handful of coins. "Here's ten bits to top it off."

"Now, you go celebrate your big day and we'll do the same!" The first drunk declared as he brought his half-full mug closer to his lips. "Big day! Lots of celebrating..."

The drunks waved farewell, and Darrian was content to leave them be. He walked down the main path, passing by shacks stacked upon each other with mismatched boards all over them; a sign of years of patching homes with whatever wood could be found. Not a minute passed by before the Vhenadahl, or "Tree of the People", slid into his view. Darrian never understood the point of the tree. Hahren, or elder, Valendrian taught the tree was a symbol of Arlathan, the first empire of elves before it was destroyed by the human Tevinter empire. _Why do we bother celebrating a dead culture? _They weren't the Dalish, who were always trying to scavenge for old, lost knowledge. They were Fereldens, even though it was another human kingdom. So, what was the point of celebrating the losing side? Darrian preferred the winning side. One thing he had to admit, it was an impressive tree. The trunk's base was bigger than three ogres, or so he'd been told. From such a large foundation, the trunk split into three thick fingers reaching for the heavens, rising higher than even than the Alienage's highest buildings.

_Too bad it doesn't actually grow food. There's enough hungry elves as is. _Darrian turned his attention away from the tree and on the multitude ambling around it. He saw more friends drinking with each other, children chasing each other, and adults talking all around it, but no sign of Soris. He frowned and scanned the Alienage's center again, this time looking for any familiar face. Off to his right, standing next to the platform where the wedding was to take place, he saw three familiar, lined faces. Dilwyn and Gethon were an old married couple, prone to harmless arguments but sweet people nonetheless. They were old friends of his mother and were the only ones who had known Adaia and were willing to talk about her, unlike his father.

The third figure was as aged as the couple, but was much more quiet, as he contently carved a small block of wood into a halla. 'Uncle' Nelaros Surana was Cyrion's old friend, and shared a few things. One was being the only other elf in the Alienage who claimed a last name, something even the Hahren didn't have. Two, a dead wife and an absent daughter. To hear his father describe him, Darrian often imagined Nelaros to be quite the mischief-maker in his youth. The first blow to his life was when his daughter was discovered to be a mage and taken by the Chantry. The second blow which rendered the former fiery elf quiet and weary was when his wife died of illness a year after losing his daughter. Since then, he devoted most of his time to his craft: toy-making. As one of Denerim's finest toy-makers, the old elf was rarely without work and often worked with Cyrion, who was a fine craftsman. The subsequent business arrangements meant Darrian often spent time with Nelaros, either being the first one to handle his new toys or working side-by-side while Darrian worked as an apprentice under Cyrion. While Nelaros was only a little more talkative with the Tabris' than with others, they were close enough for Darrian to call him Uncle Surana.

Darrian hustled over to them, hoping they had seen Soris.


End file.
